


Synthetic XII: Canticle

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Healing, M/M, Past Abuse, Time - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: calm after the storm. Dean is what the world has made him. Sam is finding out about himself. They both have a future, if they can make it.





	

Synthetic XII: Canticle  
Kitty Fisher

 

The journey back to their crummy hotel is a blur. Secure behind locked doors, Sam strips their clothes off and then Dean’s in the shower, standing quietly while he’s washed – and inspected for injuries from head to toe. The hot water is good. But it runs out way too soon, and then the tepid water suddenly turns freezing.

By the time Sam maneuvers him out of the shower stall, Dean is shivering uncontrollably. Wrapped in a thin towel, he sits on the bed and tries to focus, but the room remains stubbornly uncertain around him.

“Come on, lie down.”

“’m tired.” Running on empty, he stutters on the last syllable, almost biting his tongue.

“Yeah, that’s why you’ve got to lie down. Under the covers.” It’s a direct order. Sam’s holding the sheet and blankets back, and Dean wants to make some stupid comment about him being mom, but he can’t. Which is just as well, because it’s not what he means, just all he can find to say. 

The sheets feel like they’re scraping off a layer of skin, but he manages to lift his legs and slide down, watching Sam as he pulls the blankets up, tucks them in.

“Thanks.”

There’s a small laceration on Sam’s cheek, and a bruise just on the line of his jaw, half hidden by the fall of damp hair. As he leans over the bed, he’s close enough that Dean can see dark shadows under his eyes, and darker ones behind the controlled concern that tightens the muscles in his face. He’s staring at the collar that still circles Dean’s neck. Dean watches him, and just sees the flicker of something that silvers the hazel of his eyes, a flicker of revulsion, colored by something else, something hungry. Soon as it’s there, it’s gone, and Sam screws up his face in distaste. “I’ll borrow a hacksaw, get this cut off in the morning.”

The leash he’d cut away with a knife. The collar itself is too thick – nothing in the back of the Impala is delicate enough to remove it without removing chunks of Dean too. The leather is wet from the shower, thick and awkward against Dean’s skin, and it smells of sweat and dead animal. Dean’s certain he’s not the first person to have worn it. There’s great satisfaction in knowing he’ll be the last. Ding dong, the witch is dead. Yeah, who needs ruby slippers? The thought makes him smile, just a little. 

“Sure.” He nods at Sam, watching him give the door one last check before he slides into bed with Dean. Warmth is instant, and wonderful. “God…” Dean burrows in, his hands around Sam’s back, their thighs sliding together. As Sam’s hands brush over the worst of the marks on his ribs, he tenses - and immediately feels Sam start to pull away. “Hey, don’t go!”

“I’m hurting you…”

“I…” Dean swallows the plea and keeps very still.

“Jesus…I didn’t mean…” There’s a moment while Sam hesitantly finds places he can hold that aren’t too raw. In the end he slides one arm under Dean’s neck and pulls him in close, the other curled lightly around Dean’s hip. It’s all simply consideration, but Dean has to swallow hard on a lump in his throat. Which hurts. And that makes him want to laugh, which he knows is only hysteria. A single giggle escapes him, though it’s trapped in a shiver and comes out more like a groan.

Before Sam can say anything, Dean tucks a frozen hand into his armpit. Pretty much the last thing he’s aware of is Sam’s gasp, then he’s falling, like a stone into a deep, dark well.

:::

When he wakes, Sam’s sitting up in bed, wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants and reading something on his laptop. As soon as Dean stirs, he shuts the computer off and, leaning over, puts it on the floor. Righting himself, he slides down until he’s eye to eye with his brother. It’s a disconcertingly long and assessing stare. But then he smiles sweetly, and lightly clasps his fingers around Dean’s shoulder, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Mm. How long?” Swallowing, Dean makes a face. His throat’s scratchy, sore as anything, and his mouth tastes like something died there. He feels like he’s slept for a week. Maybe he has.

“Twenty-four hours. You insisted on going to the bathroom about five hours ago, but I guess you don’t remember?”

He remembers nothing. Just crashing, and being so cold he felt like his insides would fracture if he coughed. Lying still, he doesn’t hurt too much, but he knows that the pain is only lying in wait. Soon as he moves, it’ll be there. Breathing shallowly, he keeps still. His father would have made him move, made him push through the pain, warm his muscles with exercise and just deal with it – Don’t be a pussy, nothing’s broken!. He can hear his father shouting the words, though he can’t recall exactly when they were spoken.

He turns off that train of thought when Sam sits, holding out a hand and clearly wanting Dean to sit up too. “Come on.”

Which means moving. Dean takes a long breath, then, with Sam’s help, makes it all the way to leaning against the headboard. Once there he swallows dryly, eyes closed, breath fluttering in the top few inches of his lungs, bile somewhere just at the back of his throat.

“Drink.”

Cracking open his eyelids, he sees a carton of juice in front of him, a straw sticking out of its open top. Lifting his hand, he reaches to take it, but his fingers only curve over Sam’s, who holds it up, letting him drink, the juice flooding his mouth, tart and sweet, and wonderfully cold; soothing as it creeps down his raw throat. He drinks maybe quarter of the carton before Sam pulls it away.

“Food?”

There’s a part of his mind that finds the idea repulsive, but his stomach turns, grumbling emptily. “Yeah.”

“I went out an hour ago – there’s a diner on the corner. Cheeseburger?”

“Have I told you I love you?”

“Yeah.” Sam grins, fast and easy, tension only there in the sharpness of his movements, and the flex of muscle at his jaw. He watches while Dean eats, ravenous hunger disappearing about halfway through the first burger. Dean finishes slowly, chewing and swallowing with effort and, finally, lying back with a sigh.

“That was good. Thanks.” Before he can drift back to sleep, he’s handed two tablets, and the juice is once again under his nose.

“Tylenol.”

Obediently, he takes them, and drinks more juice. Glancing up at Sam’s face, he shivers again, sliding the straw from his mouth and lifting his head to meet the intense gaze evenly as he can. “Hey…”

“Lie down, I’m going to check you over.”

“Sam, all I need is sleep.”

“Yeah, right. Get your ass down in that bed.”

There’s a moment when Dean considers the innuendo, but in the end he can’t summon enough energy to call Sam on it. Instead he does what he’s told, and, very carefully, eases back down until he’s full length, his head on a pillow, both arms over the covers. When he glances up, Sam’s standing by the side of the bed. If anything, he looks shocked. “What?”

“Are you sure you don’t need a hospital – you didn’t argue!”

“Ha ha. Just get your white coat on, doctor.”

Sam leans over him. Lifting a hand, he touches Dean’s cheek, fingertips tracing delicately across what must, from the feel, be a pattern of bruises.

“Was this a punch?”

Dean thinks back. It all happened so fast. Already the memory is blurring, and he’s not too interested on sharpening it up. “A slap. Guess I was mouthy.”

Sam’s hand jerks away, clenching into a fist. He shakes his head as if clearing it, then starts to peel the blankets back.

If he had the energy, Dean would be squirming with embarrassment. As it is, he just sighs, and only tries half-heartedly to persuade Sam that he’s okay. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. You always look like you’ve been trampled by a herd of buffalo.” At the foot of the bed, he lets the covers fall into a heap, and looks along the length of Dean’s body. When he speaks, his voice has lost all the edge, and all he sounds is helpless. “What did he hit you with?”

“The floor mainly.” He sighs at Sam’s frown. “A flogger.”

“And these?” Sam kneels on the bed and with a fingertip that only hovers over skin, points at the swathes of small lacerations where the top layers of flesh have been ripped away, some so shallow they’re no more than scrapes, some crusted darkly from where they bled.

“The whip had knotted ends.”

“That motherfucker.” Curling forward, Sam kisses, very softly, along the line of Dean’s ribs. His lips sting where they touch raw skin.

“He was a demon, so yeah.”

“I meant Dad.”

“Oh.”

Sam looks up, his mouth twisting in revulsion. “If he knew about the demon…”

“If. We don’t know. Has he been here?”

“I called him. Told him I’d got you, and that you were going to need to heal for a few days. The bastard didn’t even offer to check on you himself – just said he’d be around soon. He did say thanks.” Sam admits the fact grudgingly. “And when he finds out about his friend, he’ll be knocking on our door then.”

“Whatever. I’m not sure I want to see him right now.”

“You never know, maybe he’s feeling guilty, and doesn’t want to see you either.” Sam shrugs dismissively.

“Yeah, so stop thinking about him.”

Nodding, Sam hesitates. Then he goes on, very slowly, “Dean, you have no idea what it was like, waiting for you.”

No, he didn’t know. Dean’s never had anyone wait for him. Not like that. Having someone waiting, and worrying. Hurting for him too. Dean blinks up, staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing back and forth over a crack that bleeds out from the wall and ends at the light. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t! I’m not angry with you! With Dad, yeah, and with my own stupidity. But you? No way.” He shakes himself and pushes off the bed, returning a moment later with a small first-aid kit. “Let me check them over – thank God for Neosporin.”

Dean says nothing. He lets Sam play doctor. Mostly he’s already healing. But the deepest of the lacerations around his ribs are red, swollen with the beginnings of infection. Dean keeps still while Sam works, only flinching when two of the worst, lying very close to the bone, are cleaned and disinfected. Even so, by the time he turns for his back to be doctored, he’s almost out of it again. Though, when Sam pushes antiseptic cream into his ass, he comes awake, hard and sharp, biting down on the pillow, unable to even partially hide how much it hurts. He can hear Sam cursing, the obscenities flowing from his mouth in staccato bursts as he quickly finishes, kneeling back and wiping his forearm over his sweating face.

Reaching a hand sideways, Dean pats Sam’s knee. “Thank you…”

“Man…”

“’m tired now.” And he is. So tired that he doesn’t realize when Sam gets off the bed, only when he comes back and curls himself next to Dean, close and warm as Dean falls back into sleep.

:::

It’s dark when he wakes again. He drinks, eats, lets Sam doctor him. Staying awake seems really tough, so he doesn’t bother, drifting in and out of sleep while Sam either surfs the ‘net or watches junk on the room’s tiny TV. The constants are that each time he wakes he feels a little better, and that each time he wakes, Sam is always there.

There’s victory in making it to the bathroom alone. He returns to find Sam waiting at the door, frowning. “You should have woken me.”

“Thanks. But you know? I like to take a dump solo. It’s just one of those things.”

“And?”

Dean winces at the memory. “Don’t ask.”

“Hospital bad?” Sam had been worrying about stitches – internal ones he couldn’t tape on or stitch in himself.

“Nope. I’ll be fine. Hell, I’ve bled worse.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me how?”

Dean lifts his hand and rests it on Sam’s chest, right over his heart. “It’ll be fine. I heal fast.”

“Thank Christ for that – now get back into bed. ”

“Such a bully…”

“You bet.”

Dean goes. 

:::

Finally, he wakes to something like clarity. Sam’s asleep next to him, and he slides out from under the long, outstretched arm and stands up, sighing in relief when the world doesn’t tilt beneath him.

Making it to the bathroom and back, he emerges with Sam sitting on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”

He holds his arms out and Dean hesitates. Hugging still feels weird. Not fucked-up weird so much. Just different. Like a language he’s never learned. The bottom line though is that he likes Sam touching him, which is really a first. The liking is enough, especially now, and it overrides twenty years of training as he steps forward, standing between Sam’s thighs, shivering once as Sam’s hands curve around his ass, and Sam leans forward to rest his face on Dean’s chest.

Tentatively, Dean combs his fingers through Sam’s hair, letting the strands fall, like knotted silk, over his skin and twist around his knuckles. Tilting his head to look down, he feels the collar around his neck, and swallows hard, feeling stiff leather press against his Adam’s apple. He’s never been into the trappings of the SM scene, but if this were Sam’s collar? Would that make it different? Better? Exciting?

He shifts again, turning his head from side to side, feeling where the edges have already rubbed at his neck. Maybe it’s the tightness that’s a turn on, or Sam’s breath, warm and easy as it skims over his skin, but he straightens warily as his cock responds.

Almost immediately, Sam looks up, speculations narrowing his eyes. “Me, or a thought?”

“Both, I guess.”

Sam twists to one side, bending to lick a stripe up Dean’s shaft, tip to root, ending with a kiss in the dark thatch of hair. Then he looks up. “Lie on the bed. Come on.” Sliding his hands from Dean’s skin, he stands and, with a light touch, guides Dean down, settling him into the middle of the bed, before kneeling at his side. “So, what was the thought?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Yeah?” Sam takes in a sharp breath. “Anything that can make this happen,” he strokes a finger along the lifting curve of Dean’s cock, “when you feel like death warmed over, can’t be that stupid.” He strokes again, then, making a circle of his fingers around the base of Dean’s shaft, squeezes gently. Instant hard-on. “Yeah, like that… Tell me?”

And because it’s a question, and Sam’s mouth is doing that smiling without smiling thing, Dean lifts his chin, baring his neck. “The collar, I was thinking about it.”

“You ever worn one before?” He sounds aloof, but Dean can hear the interest in his voice – and it occurs to him that somehow Sam hasn’t found time to cut the collar away.

“Few times. Some guys like it. The whole collar and lead shit, you know.”

“Making you something less than human. Yeah, I get that. But that’s not what made this happen.” The squeeze eases up, and two fingers push down, cupping under Dean’s balls in a way that leaves him abruptly open-mouthed, gasping softly.

“No, no. The collar, if it were yours… but not like this one. Something else, I dunno…”

He’s floundering, but Sam only nods, as if he’s hearing what Dean means rather than what he’s saying. “Some sort of outward sign of ownership.”

“Oh, fuck, that sounds so dumb …”

“No. Not like you mean it. But it is stupid in one way, because I do own you, Dean. Collar or no collar. However we got to where we are, there’s no going back. For either of us. I own you. But, just as importantly, you own me too.”

“Sam…”

“Shhhh.” The bed-springs creak, and Sam’s lying at his side, one hand still curved around his cock and balls, a pulse in his thumb echoing the one that’s beating hard inside Dean’s shaft. Propped on one elbow, Sam leans in and kisses Dean’s mouth, gently, carefully, hips canting so his own cock slides, stiff and hard, against Dean’s side. Dean opens to the kiss, the idea that he might own Sam, turning in his head, around and around, while his mouth groans against Sam’s, wide and wet and hungry.

He’s dazed when Sam lifts up from the kiss, and he opens his eyes to stare into Sam’s. It’s like looking at the heart of a fire, the rush so intense that Dean has to fight to remember to breathe.

Sam nods. “If I could, I’d fuck you. Take you so hard you’d be screaming.” Dean nods, holding still while Sam slides a leg across his thighs, and pushes up until he’s on top of Dean, weight held on elbow and knees, Sam’s feet against Dean’s legs, his bicep tight and full as he keeps himself suspended over Dean’s body. Their cocks rub together, and when Sam takes both in his hand, groaning, Dean’s head rocks back and his hips lift eagerly.

Dean still hurts, but this overrides everything. He wants Sam to fuck him. He wants to be kneeling for Sam. But he can’t, not yet – he’s still sane enough to know that, at least. But this, lying here, Sam covering him, wanting him… right now this is enough. This is life. Sam, and the sheer desire than burns through the pain, an instant analgesic. 

He lifts again, thrusting his cock so it slides in Sam’s grip. Supported on his elbow, Sam hooks a finger between Dean’s neck and the collar, holding it tight. “Keep still. Don’t move at all.”

The command pins Dean to the bed. Gasping, mouth open wide, he lies still and lets Sam stare down at him.

“Better.”

His hips give a little jerk.

“Oh, bad. I’ll remember that, and punish you.” He grins as Dean’s cock pulses in his hand, pre-come spilling, slippery and cool between the heat of their flesh. The grin fades, and Sam shifts straight into intensity. “Dean, you slay me. When I saw you in my head… Jesus Christ, I thought I’d die. Worse, that you would die before I could get there.”

“Sam…”

“Keep still!” Sam tugs on the collar, his face set and pale, its bones clearly defined under taut skin. “I’ll get you off, when I want to. Understood?”

“Yes,” Dean hiccups on a breath, on a wave of emotion, “sir.”

“Yeah, like that. And like this…” He jerks his fist up and down, slowly, his fingers hard around Dean’s cock, thumb over his own holding them both tight together. “This is all such fucked-up shit, but this is our life. You’re my life, Dean. You… Oh, God.”

Arching back, Sam comes, hard, groaning as he milks himself against Dean’s cock, shuddering forward, somehow keeping his weight off Dean’s body as he falls sideways, panting, a finger still hooked under the leather collar, the others jerking against Dean’s skin.

Like a gundog, Dean watches him. Every breath, every shift of muscle, until Sam licks his lower lip and sits up.

“You didn’t move.” Sounding amazed, he shakes his head when Dean only narrows his eyes, as if suspicious of the comment. “I don’t know how he trained you, but, man…”

Leaning over, he kisses Dean again, long and slow, tongue probing deep into Dean’s mouth, finally licking his way around Dean’s lips, careful of the healing split, sucking gently at one corner before lifting his head, his hand moving lazily up and down the length of Dean’s cock.

He smiles, then wriggles down the bed, his finger unhooking from the collar, his mouth snagging a nipple briefly, before moving down to Dean’s cock. “You can move now…” and with that, he opens his mouth and licks. Long, lapping strokes that start at the root and end with a teasing swirl into the slit, sliding pre-come down the shaft before opening wide and gulping, his throat opening as if on demand. Sublime, perfect. Too much. Dean’s hips rock up, and he digs his fingers into the mattress, choking, struggling not to scream as he comes.

Afterward, Sam licks him clean, and he’s aware of that, twitching with every stroke of the broad tongue on painfully sensitized flesh. He’s even alert enough to know when he’s been covered up, and when Sam kisses him, chastely on the forehead.

After that, there’s nothing. Though he dreams of contentment, and a house by a lake.

:::

The smell of coffee wakes him up. He can’t see Sam, so, very cautiously, he climbs out of bed, and stands up straight. Which isn’t nearly as bad an experience as he thought it would be. Even the bathroom proves less of an ordeal, and from that alone he knows it’s been at least four days, more likely five, since he was half-carried from the church. The mirror shows him someone skinnier, someone marked lividly with bruises and fading welts, and with hollows carved under his cheekbones. He looks like he’s been mainlining heroin for weeks. Hell, maybe the models should all get a demon of their own. Maybe most of them already had.

The clearest memory he has of the last few days, is of Sam, touching the collar. And the expression on his face. Which makes Dean step closer to his reflection. The leather is very black against his pallor. The tiny lock is shiny, swinging slightly against his skin. If it weren’t the priest’s…

He looks away. Because it is. Even if he’s no longer sure if that matters. Shaking his head he turns, and walks back into their room.

Sam’s pulled one of the tatty old wooden chairs over to the door, and he’s sitting in the doorway, eyes closed as he basks in early morning sunlight. It’s very warm, and only the slightest breeze pushes past him, stirring the fine hair of his bangs. Almost bangs, Dean thinks. If it grows much more it’ll be a mop. Sam looks content enough. Long, jeans-clad legs stretched out, bare feet pale in the sunshine, body relaxed as he sprawls back, arms crossed over his chest, the powerful muscles of his upper arms for once on display in the short-sleeved T-shirt. He looks tired, but - and it embarrasses Dean in the cold light of day to think such a thing - very beautiful. Like a big cat, with lean muscle under tawny skin. Beautiful. It’s a word that does the job, states its case and sums Sam up. Dean takes another step forward, and closes the bathroom door.

Immediately, Sam turns, standing up as he sees Dean. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

“Great.”

“Truth, maybe? Just a little?”

“Right. In that case, okay. Better than I was. Much better.” He is. Almost well, more or less. Dean walks over to the doorway, staring out into the world, at the array of old cars lined up in the lot, at the trees that line the road, all of them molting leaves from the heat and the lack of rain. 

“You up for a ride?” Sam asks the question innocently, but Dean grins. He can’t help it. Sam mock-slaps his shoulder. “A real ride – in the car, idiot.”

“Sure. Let me get some more clothes on.”

“Yeah, like that you’ll scare the sheep.”

“Oh, real country then.”

“Yep, even further than the nearest Starbucks.”

“Man, you think I need to pack oxygen?”

“No.” Sam smiles indulgently. “And in case the natives get restless, there’s guns a-plenty in the trunk. You never know, I’ve heard some stories about the locals ‘round here…”

“Yeah – insider trading and wife swapping.”

Sam grins. Pausing by the bed to pull on his boots, he looks at where Dean’s still standing, stock still. “Well, come on, get dressed!”

“Sam…”

“No. There’ll be time enough to find Dad. Today we pretend we’re real people, okay? We drive out into the country, we eat a picnic. We don’t kill anything, we don’t get killed. Winchester rules to live by, amended version, part one, column A.”

“The Sam and Dean version.”

“Yeah.” Sam smiles, full wattage, eyes and mouth and body. “Just that, our version.”

:::

Sam takes the wheel, and Dean rides shotgun. Shades on, fully dressed for the first time in longer than he cares to think about, he stretches out, Metallica rattling the windows, Sam’s resigned expression a perfect counterpoint to the elaborate guitar line. They drive out of the city and into Hicksville, taking side roads until the car is the only automobile within fifty miles that doesn’t have four-wheel drive and does have an engine. Past farms and endless fields of ripening crops, through small towns, some just about four houses and a bar, keeping on until he thinks they must be heading for California, and Sam neglected to tell him that little detail, until finally the car pulls off the road.

“This’ll do.”

Dean looks around. On one side the road dips off into fields, planted with something growing and green, while on the other there’s a small piece of woodland, the trees all draped with the vines that seem to grow on anything tall that stands still long enough. “We need firewood for something?”

“Nope.”

Dean frowns out at the glories of nature, while Sam climbs out of the car. “So what is it - the woods are haunted?”

“No way! Told you, stupid, this is fun.”

“Fun. Right.” Sighing, Dean unfastens his door, and pulls himself out. The world smell of gasoline residue, hot metal and green. Maybe with some added brown. “Sam, exactly what sort of fun you thinking of?”

“You on your knees fun.”

Which suddenly makes the outside seem a little more interesting. Dean almost grins, then, a frown pinching his forehead, he looks suspiciously at Sam. “No messing with bugs, okay?”

“No. No bugs.”

“Or dickhead morons who play the banjo.”

“No. As if.”

Dean nods. As if, indeed. “On my knees you said?”

“Yep. Before lunch.”

“And you don’t mean –”

“Dean, shut up.” Sam turns, staring over the Impala’s hood at where Dean’s staring around, about as at home as a monkey in the Arctic. “You’ll find out. Now grab the bag from behind your seat and come on.”

Still grumbling, but under his breath, Dean does what he’s told.

They walk into the woods, into a silence only heightened by the sound of birds rustling and calling to each other. The earth crunches softly underfoot, deep with last years fallen leaves. Some sort of flower grows among the vines, and Dean sneezes once, earning him a sigh, before they step out of the darkness, emerging on a slope of grassland that curves down into a valley. With not a house in sight, just farmland with no farm, it’s like stepping back in time. In the shade of a tree, Sam stops, dumps the bag he’s been carrying, spreads out the blanket and sits down, kicking off his boots and lying back, propped on his elbows, easy as an Eastern potentate surveying his kingdom.

“Okay - now get your clothes off.”

Dean looks at the lazy sprawl of his brother’s body, his eyes fixing first on the fullness that’s stretching the denim over his crotch, then up to his eyes. Which aren’t lazy at all. 

“Sam?”

“I got tired of hotel rooms. And I want to see you, on your knees, naked, in about thirty seconds, or I’ll consider beating your ass, bruises or no bruises.”

Which is a tough choice. But Dean elects to be obedient, hiding his smile as he strips off his boots and clothes, tossing it all under the tree, before he walks steadily to Sam’s side, the air cool on his skin, Sam’s eyes providing all the heat. He kneels on the edge of the blanket. Folding his hands in the small of his back, gaze carefully cast down towards the steady rise of his own cock.

“Pretty.”

The word has instant connotations. The priest had called him pretty. Or was it the demon? But he never believed it then either, not of himself, only of what he’s doing, and how he’s doing it. Grace can be pretty, elegance and training can be pretty, Dean knows that he himself isn’t. Can’t be – however often anyone denies it.

There’s a light breeze, enough to stir the tiny hairs that cover his thighs and sac, and to cool the sweat that the heat’s bringing up to his skin. In the dappling of sun and shade, he kneels, sharply aware of contentment. Since he started feeling better, he’s been tense, strung out on worry and the plain functionality of healing. Not now though. This, whatever you’d call it, therapy perhaps, though not any kind he’s ever seen recommended for stress, seems to be working fine. He sighs, easing his shoulders back, feeling a kink work out of his spine.

Sam shifts onto his side, one hand propped under his head, and announces casually, “I’ve never fucked in the open air.”

Right. Dean sways slightly, blood rushing downward, pulled by more than gravity.

Uncurling his arm, using it to push himself forward, Sam puts his lips to the very tip of Dean’s cock and sips pre-come. Then he simply goes back to reclining in the shade, his half-lidded eyes watching every nuance of Dean’s reaction.

Which is just about controlled. Even though Sam’s lips had felt like electricity jolting into his balls, he stays still, eyes down, breath coming evenly.

He’s sure Sam’s smiling, even though he daren’t look.

“Stretch your thighs apart – and if your knees protest, say so. Dean?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll speak up.” His knees are still colored through from green to yellow, though they don’t hurt like they did before the bruising came out.

“And anything else – none of that heroic shit, okay?”

Dean nods. He doesn’t feel in the slightest bit heroic. Just empty. Like he needs Sam to fill him. Not only physically, though that’s part of what he wants too.

Easing his knees apart, he spreads until tendons begin to burn from the stretch, and he has to arch back slightly to keep balanced on the uneven ground. Sam reaches forward and traces a fingertip up his inner thigh, and Dean gasps, biting down fast on the sound, but not completely before it escapes. When the finger starts to tease up and down, he bites on his lower lip, spine notching as he arches back, desperately trying not to twist away from the touch. But it’s so light, so delicate, almost tickling as it skims his skin, each stroke rising fractionally higher, until Sam’s knuckle brushes his balls with each sweep of his hand. He can feel his nuts shifting in their sac, while the sac itself tightens – though Sam’s knuckle still finds it as the hand rises up, barely touching, like a butterfly crawling on his skin, before dropping away. The pattern repeated. Up. Then away. Until Dean’s moaning constantly under his breath, every inch of his skin focused on the fingertip as it slowly drives him insane.

Eventually, the stroking finally stops. Dean cracks open his lids and stares down at the big hand, spread out on the blanket, mottled by leaf patterns from the sun shining through branches. Blinking sweat away from his eyes, Dean sucks in a forgotten breath, and shivers.

Which intensify when Sam lazily reaches up and, with the edge of one finger, scoops a trail of pre-come from Dean’s cock. And licks it up, sucking his own finger like he’s starving and spunk is the best food ever; licking and sucking, leaving his finger slick and shiny as he pulls it from his lips.

And pushes it under Dean’s sac to rub at his asshole.

Panting hard, Dean closes his eyes, and groans as a finger pushes in, just the blunt-nailed tip curling inside, so he can feel the spasm of muscle around it, the hungry clasp of his body, wanting it, wanting more. He jerks wildly as heat envelops his cock. Opening his eyes, blinking down to see Sam’s mouth, stretched wide around him, sucking in counterpoint to the tiny movements of the intruding finger.

“Please…”

Sam looks up, his face angled, only one eye visible. He nods, unmistakably, and Dean comes, just like that, spunk ripping up from his balls while his ass clamps down, and Sam’s throat swallows, again and again, as his mouth is filled.

Dean almost falls when he’s done. Sam eases his mouth away and Dean’s held, caught up in Sam’s arms, kissed by Sam’s mouth so he’s tasting himself, wrapped tight and devoured, his own hunger blurring into Sam’s, his mind nothing, without thought or memory, simply the instantaneous need for this moment, and this one, and every one forever that means Sam holds him and wants him.

Finally easing back, Sam’s panting too. “I love it when you come.”

Nodding, Dean understands. It’s the watching, and the gifting. He likes making Sam come too.

“You think I can fuck you?”

“I though you were going to anyway…” Dean smiles, just a little, hoping that Sam won’t change his mind, won’t shift too far out of the dominance that fits him so well. “I can beg?”

He feels the tight jerk of muscles as Sam reacts to that.

“Please, sir, fuck my ass.” His own hands cup Sam’s buttocks, thumbs stroking through thick denim. “Take what you want. Fuck me.”

“Shit…”

“Sir, put your cock in my ass,” Dean pulls Sam close, rubbing himself against the bulge in Sam’s jeans, smiling wickedly because he knows this is slutty and cheesier than any porn, but man, it’s getting Sam off. “Sir, please do it - make me howl. Make me come again, sir.” Because he will. He’s flying on the sweetness of endorphins, on the lust that he sees in Sam’s eyes.

“Dean…”

“Sir.” His name was a statement, not a question, but Dean answers anyway.

“You know I want to hurt you.”

Which isn’t a question either. And Dean gasps, his cock lifting just from the words, his teeth snapping together as every muscle in his body just tightens, prickling with need. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m crazy. Wired up wrong. I have to be. But with you…” Sucking in a breath that sounds as if it’s being forced into his lungs, Sam nods. Agreeing with something he’s said to himself. “But when I’m with you, the wiring is right, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to make you bleed. I don’t want to scar you or cripple you. What I want is to see you – stripped naked, outside and in. Naked, bare, nude. All of you. So I can see every part, every inch of you. Everything that’s mine.” He smiles then, his wide mouth tilting up at its edges, wicked, and sure, and sexy beyond belief. “And I also want to hear you scream. Pain as well as pleasure. Sometimes.”

Dean swallows hard, hearing the click of his own throat muscles loud in his ears. “Sam… yeah. Sir.”

“Lie flat on the blanket, face down.” Pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek, Sam moves away, standing up and stripping off as Dean lays himself down, the wool scratchy under his skin. But then silk would irritate right now, because his whole body feels as if its nerves are exposed on the surface of his skin.

A hand on the small of his back makes him flinch. Sam murmurs something, but Dean can’t hear it, as from somewhere Sam’s brought out a foil packet of lube, the real stuff, and he’s breaking it open, dripping it between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, fingering it around and in, one finger and then two, right inside until Dean’s moaning constantly, biting the wool under his cheek and clinging to anything he can find, blanket, grass, earth itself. Sam kneels between his legs and his cockhead nudges between Dean’s thighs, sliding up, slipping past the opening, slipping again until Sam has to hold himself in place. Pushing back, Dean listens to Sam’s muttered cursing, waiting for the moment when his own body gives up and opens - feeling it as a shock of white pleasure that blinds him, holds him suspended in time, pierced and grounded. Until Sam drops forward, his body covering Dean’s, and his cock pushes on and in, slow as the seasons, stretching time and Dean until it’s there, root deep, buried far as it can go.

Teeth bite Dean’s neck. “This. This is what I’ve been craving.”

Craving. Yes. Dean nods, the blanket rough under his cheek.

“Come before I do. Let me watch and feel.” Sam smoothes a hand over the side of Dean’s head, down his face, thumbing sweat from his lip, before, as if dragged there, his fingers curl around the collar. He tugs it, gently. Then, very slowly, pulls his hips back. With excruciating deliberation he inches his cock from Dean’s ass, making Dean feel every vein, every pulse of blood. Forcing every nuance of sensation to be felt as something separate, so that Dean shivers, pierced only by the fat plum of Sam’s cockhead, spread wide, looking back over his shoulder, feeling Sam’s sweat drip onto his back. He meets Sam’s eyes and hides nothing. Offering himself without guard, or shame, so that what he feels - all of it – is there in his eyes and mouth and skin. Sam reaches up and cups his chin, watching as he slowly pushes his cock home, and just as slowly starts to fuck, each stroke very deep, pausing each time with the tightness of his balls resting on Dean’s ass. Then simply starting again, pulling back almost completely, then slowly pressing back in. Dean knows he’s drooling, knows he’s hardly capably of anything other than existing. But this is being claimed, and Dean knows it, understands it, wants it – in the most visceral way imaginable.

“Put your hands together, over your head.”

Which makes Dean shiver. He clasps his hands, resting them on the blanket, sighing as Sam holds them down, using them as leverage as he lifts himself up, just enough to gain a stronger thrust. Growling as he slams in, rocking Dean’s body forward. Sam’s other hand is slippery around Dean’s chin, and it moves away, locking instead around Dean’s wrist, so that both hands are holding him down, pinning him to the ground as Sam gives in and pumps his hips, slam-fucking Dean’s ass until Dean dissolves, sobbing Sam’s name as he comes, jerking like a toy as finally, Sam comes too, head back, howling up at the trees and sky, as if pleasure’s being ripped from him, torn from somewhere deep in his soul.

::

When Sam tries to apologize, Dean kisses him. Neither of them have much energy, so it’s an easy, soft kiss. Sam curls himself around Dean’s body. Neither of them sleep, but it’s a long time before either of them moves.

Sam stirs first. He sits up, pulling Dean with him. 

“Hey!” Wincing slightly as he sits, Dean bats Sam’s hand away. “I was enjoying that!”

“And I’m hungry.” He looks slightly startled. “No, I’m ravenous.”

That makes Dean perk up. “You brought food?”

“What d’you think’s in the bag?”

“No idea. Whips, chains and shackles?”

“Yeah, right. Actually, I though some subs, sodas and chips might be more useful.” He grins, waiting a beat. “The others I can always improvise.”

“Mmm, bet you have the Scout badge for improvised whip-making…” Dean’s waiting while Sam open the bag. He’s still naked, but it’s not an issue. Hell, it’s cooler than clothes, and the sun pouring down onto the wide field is very hot. The shade is good. He inches closer to the food, and to naked Sam – which proves a conflict of interests, but he focuses himself on one thing at a time. “What’s in the subs?”

“Roast beef, all the trimmings, no tomato.”

“Man, you’re good.”

“Not always.” Sam doles out the food, taking a can of soda and popping the top, drinking before he goes on. “I have a confession to make.”

His mouth full of salted potato chip, Dean makes an indeterminate sound of enquiry.

“When I got your things from the rectory, I stole some stuff too.”

“Yeah? Hey, I reckon anything that bastard had is legitimate fucking plunder. Don’t call yourself a criminal yet, Sammy.”

“Mm. There’s cash enough to fund us for a while, maybe even a few months if we don’t go crazy with all the high living and all.”

“And…? Come on, I know there’s something else.”

“There was a scrapbook. Of you.”

The chips sit like lead as his stomach lurches. “Shit.”

“I think mainly from when you were with him, but there’re pictures of you at a few different ages. Anyway, I took it, stashed it with my things back at the motel.” Sighing, he shifts, folds his legs in front of him, and leans his elbows on the pale skin of his knees. “Maybe we can burn it.”

“Yeah.” Dean thinks about it. Shrugs. And takes a bite of his sub. “Burning sounds about all it’s good for.”

“That’s it? You’re not pissed off that I didn’t tell you right away?”

“Nope. Sam, if you were feeling guilty and brought me all the way out here, fucked my ass off and bought my favorite food, all to sweeten me up, there really was no need. I don’t care about all that shit in the album. I’m glad you found it. But only so we can burn the thing – get rid of it for good.” He runs a finger up his chest, picking up a drop of mustard sauce that escaped, then sucking the fingertip slowly, while he considers. “I kinda know I should care, but,” he shrugs again, twisting his lips disdainfully, “I’m not gonna make myself.” He licks the bottom of his sub, tonguing up a drop of sauce before it can land on him. “Whatever you do, shit happens.”

“Shit happened to you way too much.”

“Yeah, well – another Winchester family trait.” He shrugs.” Way I see it? You either get sucked in by the shit and you drown, or you say fuck it. So, fuck every miserable bastard who gets off on using kids, every demon, every asswipe that gets a kick from someone else’s misery. Fuck ‘em all.”

Sam lifts his can in a toast. “Fuck ‘em all! And the horse they rode in on.”

Which makes Dean laugh so hard he chokes on his mouthful. He lies back, wiping tears from his eyes, staring up at the green leaves and the bright blue sky. And yelps when Sam pours soda on his belly. The wrestling doesn’t last long. Sam gives in, grinning up at Dean, his eyes alight with mischief and that indefinable something that tells Dean he’s loved. That this is real. Solid. He sobers, stilling, half sprawled on Sam’s body.

“Maybe we’ve both been saving up questions.”

“Yeah? What’s yours?”

“If you could, would you go back to college?”

“Yes. No – maybe.” Sighing in exasperation, Sam shrugs. “Hell, I don’t know. Not without you, either way.”

“What if I came too?” Dean winces. “Not to college itself! But with you. I could get a job, wait tables – whatever.”

A speculative frown digs in between Sam’s eyebrows. “You’re serious.”

“Guess I am.”

“It would mean no more hunting. At least, not all-the-time hunting. I’m not sure I could give it up entirely now – there’s too much shit happening, and we can make too much of a difference, to give it up entirely. But, college? Yeah, you know it’s what I always wanted. But, Dean? Like I said, not without you, and not unless you could be happy. Martyrdom sucks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean nods. “How about New York? We could have fun there.” And be anonymous. Queer wouldn’t be an issue, not in the civilized north. The brother thing? Not so easy, but hell, they didn’t exactly look alike.

“I’d have to get into a college first.”

Neither of them mention going back to California. Dean sighs, and rests his head on Sam’s chest. It all seems a little too much like fantasy. But, maybe one day…

“Dean?” Sam’s hand lifts and strokes over Dean’s head, slowly ruffling his hair. “What’s your dream? If you could do anything – what would it be?”

“Dunno. Play guitar, I guess.”

“Yeah, in a rock ‘n’ roll band.”

Almost purring under the caress, Dean smiles lopsidedly. “Not even that. Just to play. I always wanted to learn, but there was never enough money – and we never stayed anywhere long enough for me to pick up anything more than a few chords here and there.”

“How much can an old guitar cost?”

“When you’re hustling for food, a lump of wood and few catgut strings costs way too much.” He feels Sam’s breath catch, and lifts his head. “Stop with the guilt. You didn’t know. So what if it was tough? We survived.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a nice halo you can polish up before bedtime.” A hand slaps his ass, and Dean wriggles, inviting another.

“You are such a cocktease!”

“Me? Uh, maybe you missed the whole reaming thing that went on here about half an hour ago? I didn’t see you complaining then.” Grinning, Dean stares down at Sam. The gasps as he’s grabbed and turned, the world somersaulting as suddenly he’s the one looking up at the sky and at Sam’s face. “Hey!”

But Sam’s not laughing. His face is serious, sadness like a shadow behind his eyes. “Dean, I want all of this. I want us. It scares me shitless…”

“Yeah.” What can he say? He wants it all too. College, a job – a real life, for fuck’s sake. “Me too.”

“So we have to deal with Dad.”

“Sam…”

“We have to.”

Staring past Sam’s face, looking up at the sky, feeling the weight of Sam’s naked body against his own, Dean knows truth when he hears it. “Yeah.”

With scarcely another word, they stand up, dress, and gather their belongings. The trek back to the Impala takes way too little time, as does the drive back to Sioux City. The city feels weirdly wrong after the countryside, and both of them are tense as they pull into their motel’s lot. Seeing their father’s truck parked in front of their room doesn’t help. They pull up, and Sam turns the car off. They listen to the engine cooling, to the click and tick of metal. Then, finally, they climb out into the late afternoon heat.

 

Fin XII


End file.
